


Just Like a Freakin' Fairy Tale

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, The Auction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The question isn't who bought Lot 37, but what was in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like a Freakin' Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Characterizations are based on Nazi Nurse and PunkRockGaia's interpretations of the characters.

He spends most of the evening out back of the auction house, dragging at a glowing cigarette and pulling his coat tight against the cold desert night. He only steps inside on three occasions, and then only briefly: first, to fill out the paperwork while the SSP pigs stare at him with raised eyebrows. Second, to dodge bullets while he makes his bid on Lot 37. Third, at the end of the night, to collect on his winnings.

He times that final entrance carefully. The thing with the stolen name is distracted with the night’s closing remarks-- among them, a promise of revenge against the winner of the lot.

A grim smile plays on his face as he crushes his cigarette underfoot.

The real Cecil Palmer lies in a glass coffin, like something out of a freakin' fairy tale-- like the Eternal Scouts outside City Hall. Cecil looks exactly like he did the last time he saw him-- gawky and awkward and halfway through a growth spurt, his hair a disheveled mess that was considered high fashion for fifteen-year-olds at the time. His eyes are shut, his face relaxed, and you could almost think he was sleeping.

Almost.

But he’s not. The thing that stole his name made sure of it.

“Mr. Palmer?” says one of the police officers, and he digs a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket and deposits them on her clipboard. The officer glares through the balaklava. “You’re going to need to sign for the lot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, and signs the bottom of the form with a swooping _FUCK YOU_.

Twenty-three years. That’s how long Cecil’s been under glass, and not one of those bastards lifted a finger to do anything about it. At least they’re doing some lifting now, hauling the glass coffin into the back of his flatbed. One of them swears as he pinches his fingers under its weight.

Palmer can’t help but flash a vindictive grin.

He drives out into Radon Canyon, as close to the overlooking heights as he can get without hitting solid rock.

He digs for hours, mountains of sand and cold earth rising up around a pit that’s as deep as he can make it. Not six feet-- the ground is too shifting and unwieldy for that-- but pretty damn close.

Steve Carlsberg arrives a few hours later, helps him pull the glass coffin out of the flatbed and slide it carefully into the grave. Helps him cover it with sand and dirt until Cecil’s face is finally, finally hidden from the world, and the ground lays flat over his memory.

Steve pulls a beer out of his trunk and sits at the edge of the canyon, his feet swinging over the abyss like when they were teenagers. It’s supposed to look casual, but Palmer knows it’s a gesture of sympathy. A moment of privacy.

He stands at the foot of the grave and lights a cigarette-- and then another, when the first burns down to the filter.

A third is reduced to ash before he finally lets himself speak.

“Hey, kid.” The tobacco has left his voice rough and low. “I told you you’d never make it in radio.”

He accepts a beer from Steve, but he doesn’t open it. Getting beyond Night Vale’s city limits is hard enough sober, and he wants to put this nightmare place behind him once and for all.

Later, though, he’ll crack open that beer and drink himself into oblivion-- when the damn town has sunk under the horizon and his brother’s stolen voice can no longer haunt him on the radio.


End file.
